The Earl and the Reluctant Lady (Lords of Vice)

by DeHart, Robyn

  He wanted to pump his fist in the air and cheer. He wanted to close the distance between them and kiss her again. Pull her onto his lap and show her exactly how good desire could be. But he could not have her.

  He.

  Could.

  Not.

  Have.

  Her.

  No matter how much he wanted her. No matter how much his body screamed MINE whenever she was near. Hell, he’d wanted her, likely loved her, for the last three years, and in that time he’d had countless women in his bed. How could he expect to become a different person merely by being her husband? He’d eventually grow tired of her as he had every other woman, and he refused to do that to her.

  Yet a voice inside kept repeating that if he had Agnes, if she was truly his and his alone, he’d never want another woman as long as he lived. As it was, anytime he was with a woman, he had to close his eyes and imagine her exquisite face. Still, she didn’t even want a husband. He would not force his desires upon her. He would protect her. That was the only thing he deserved to do for her.

  “This.” He motioned between the two of them. “What we have together is merely an effect of being compatible in that particular area. I am not the only man who could make you feel this way.” Damned if he didn’t want that to be a lie.

  “Which means that you feel this with other women?”

  No. He didn’t and never had, but he couldn’t tell her that. If he admitted he felt this way only for her, it would be crossing a line he could never come back from. She would have leverage over him…even more than she already had. Sooner or later, she would wear him down. He would give in to his urge to seduce her. She would be his.

  But if he walked down that road he would eventually ruin everything. He would break her heart, lose her forever, and he would never be able to forgive himself.

  So, he lied. Like his life depended on it. Even though it nearly killed him.

  “Yes. That’s what it’s always like.”

  The shock and hurt that flashed through her eyes only strengthened his resolve. He was already hurting her, but this was nothing to the heartache marriage to him would bring.

  You’re a no-good wastrel. A simpering, stuttering idiot.

  His grandfather’s words rattled through his head. Cruel old bastard. That didn’t mean the man was wrong. Fletcher knew he didn’t deserve Agnes. The men in his family hurt women, which was all they ever did. He wouldn’t do that to Agnes.

  Abruptly, he stood and walked away, leaving her there in the garden, beautiful and freshly kissed. And even more beyond his reach than she had been the first time he’d kissed her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Agnes exhaled slowly. Fletcher had left her in the gardens and she was taking a few moments to clear her head. His admission had stung, she couldn’t deny that. How could it be that he experienced such passion with every woman when she only felt it with him? Granted, she’d only kissed two men now, so she wasn’t an expert by any stretch of the imagination. Still something in his words didn’t ring true. Had he lied? Or was she merely hoping he had in order to make herself feel better?

  Why were men so bloody complicated? A good reminder why marriage wasn’t for her.

  She truly feared that if she allowed herself to indulge—to really explore passion—she’d never be able to contain it. Pandora’s box would be opened, the cork ripped from the bottle and she’d never be able to stuff it back inside. So, it was best that they had no future together. She’d find a nice, suitable husband who wouldn’t evoke such potentially dangerous emotions in her.

  She made her way back inside, not quite knowing if it was the slight chill in the air or the lingering feelings of desire that had her nipples so tight. All these years she’d judged her mother for being unfaithful, but if Fletcher was correct, and he wasn’t the only man who could make her feel such lust, then she was in more trouble than she thought.

  Agnes was nearly to the staircase, which led up to her bedchamber, when a servant stopped her, telling her that her mother was waiting in the front parlor to discuss something. Discussions with her mother only ever went one way and Agnes was not in the mood for maternal manipulations today. Still she made her way over to the parlor, knowing full well that if she didn’t, her mother would simply hunt her down.

  “Agnes, darling, I see that Lord Wakefield paid another call on you,” she said as Agnes entered the room. The older woman was reclined across the settee. She motioned Agnes forward. She was stuffed into a gown with a bodice so tight, her breasts practically fell over the top. She gave her a conspirator smile. “Come and tell your mother all about it.”

  A maid brought in a tray of tea, and Agnes sat on one of the chairs adjacent to the settee.

  They sat in silence for a few moments while they readied their tea.

  They weren’t close, she and her mother. Agnes simply didn’t know how to relate to the woman. They might look alike, but they were so very different. Sadly, Agnes knew that the only times her mother sought her out was because she wanted something.

  “Lord Wakefield is very dashing,” her mother finally said. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. They were blue, like Agnes’s, but where Agnes’s were light, her mother’s were dark. “Very dashing, indeed.”

  “He is.” Agnes stirred her tea thoughtfully, wondering what other girls did when having such conversations with their mothers. She would not tell her about the kisses. If she did, that could potentially lead down a road that Agnes did not want to travel. In fact, she would tell her as little as possible.

  “Do you have anything of note to share with me about his visits?”

  “Not particularly. I believe he is merely following standard courtship protocol.”

  Her mother released a frustrated groan. “Honestly, Agnes, no wonder you don’t have more suitors. You can’t speak that way.”

  “Do you need anything else, Mother?” Agnes asked.

  “Why do you hate me so?” her mother said with an obvious pout.

  Agnes looked up. In that moment, she searched her mother’s pretty features for anything resembling real emotion, but she found nothing. She sighed. “Mama, I don’t hate you. Why would you ever think such a thing?”

  Her mother straightened herself, rolling her shoulders backward and tilting her chin up. She had such poise, such grace in her movements. “I know you do not approve of some of my choices.”

  Agnes nodded, unsure of what to say. They’d never actually discussed her mother’s affairs. What was one supposed to say about her mother’s infidelity?

  “I know you hear things. I’ve heard the rumors. I know what others say about me.”

  “Are the rumors true?” Agnes asked.

  Her mother tilted her head slightly. “Some are. Some aren’t. That is not the point.”

  That was as much of an admission she was likely to get from her mother. “What of Father?”

  “Your father is a busy man. He hasn’t always made time for me.”

  “Did you ever love him?”

  “Your father?” Her mother paused as if considering the question. “I suppose I believed myself to be in love. When you’re young and foolish and caught up in a whirlwind courtship, it’s easy to convince yourself it’s love.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “Perhaps it was. The truth of the matter is that there are a multitude of men who can bring you pleasure. I didn’t understand then in my youth. I’ve loved some of them, but certainly not all of them.”

  Thus proving her theory that love does not endure. Agnes felt a weight settle on her shoulders.

  “I will not apologize for being the woman I am, Agnes. I am sorry that it gives you distress, though I’m not certain why. It shouldn’t matter to you one way or another.”

  “Mother, honestly. I hear of one story after another of you with men. Blatantly disregarding your marital vows.” Agnes winced at her own words. “It’s humiliating. Not to mention it has created a false belief that I am to follow in your foot
steps.”

  A flash of anger shot through her mother’s face. Her features pinched. “That is preposterous. Anyone could spend five minutes with you and know you are not a passionate sort.” She released a cold laugh. “I’ve never understood if you’re simply too stupid or too stubborn to use the gifts you’ve been given. There are women in this town that would kill for our beauty.”

  Agnes didn’t understand it, but her mother’s words stung. She should be thrilled, relieved, yet she found herself oddly wounded. Not to mention the fact that what she said was fundamentally false. At least the part about other people recognizing her not to be a passionate woman. It hadn’t kept the men and their lascivious words and glances at bay.

  “You’ve never once considered, though, that your actions affect the rest of us, Mother. I’m not even speaking about Father. But certainly, you must know that men have propositioned me.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Agnes.”

  “I’m not. I just wish, for once, you could be more like Harriet’s mother: supportive and encouraging.” She knew the minute the words had left her mouth that she’d said the wrong thing. Her mother hated, above all else, being compared to Agnes’s friend’s mothers.

  Her mother’s pretty features hardened. “What am I to do with myself, Agnes? Sit at home and embroider? Being a lady is boring. I know you agree and I know you are not immune to the notion.”

  No, she wasn’t. It was partly what had led her to first agreeing to be a member of the Ladies of Virtue and then to designing her weapons.

  Her mother shot to her feet and paced the room. “Why is it perfectly acceptable for a man to be flagrant with his affairs, but when a lady does it, she is shunned, branded a whore?”

  Agnes had no answer to that. “Whether or not it is fair, men and women are not equal, you know that. This is not a new phenomenon.”

  “I am a passionate woman. I enjoy relations. There is no crime in that. And I am fortunate enough to look like this.” Her hands moved down her torso. “You might wish I were more like Duchess Lockwood and her friends, but I am the one the men come to. I could have a different man warm my bed every night, whereas they cannot.”

  Agnes’s cheeks flamed. She did not want to discuss this with her mother.

  “They can be marvelous, my dear daughter.” She sat then and gathered Agnes’s hands in her own. “Lord Wakefield could give you everything. Passion and love.”

  “Father has not given you those things?” Agnes asked before she thought better of it.

  “Your father and I were once lovers and wonderful friends. But he is quite a bit older than me and we’ve always been unmatched when it comes to fleshly pleasures. He is too busy for me. Always so focused on his travels and collecting those damn weapons of his. We have an entire museum’s worth of weaponry in this house, it’s ridiculous.”

  Agnes winced.

  Her mother chuckled. “I won’t go into any further details on the matter because we’re your parents. But suffice it to say, it is wise to test the waters before you jump in, if you understand my meaning.”

  “I’m not certain—”

  “It goes against standard convention—ladies are taught and encouraged to remain chaste until marriage. I did. But had I, at the very least, kissed your father before the wedding, perhaps I’d have known that we were not a good match.”

  “Mother, are you suggesting that I taste the wares, so to speak, before purchasing?”

  She chuckled again. “I most certainly am.”

  Agnes paused, considering her next statement. “Lord Wakefield says that he feels passion with plenty of women.” Perhaps her mother could provide some maternal guidance, as unconventional as it was.

  One delicate brow arched over her mother’s dark-blue eyes. “You and Lord Wakefield have discussed passion?”

  Agnes’s cheeks heated. “I’ve kissed him. And Viscount Glenbrook. Very different experiences.”

  Her mother’s face lit with joy. “Oh, do tell!”

  Agnes shook her head. “No. I will not discuss this. It is far too embarrassing.”

  “Honestly, Agnes. You are a grown woman.”

  She was quiet for a few moments before she spoke.

  “Viscount Glenbrook would be a good choice for you,” her mother said.

  “He is kind and respectful and very handsome.”

  “Yes, he is,” her mother agreed.

  “Lord Wakefield.” Even saying his name made her sigh. Good heavens but she was a goose. “He is all wrong for me.”

  “You know I only want you to be happy, Agnes. I spent a lot of time in the early part of our marriage being unhappy. Then we came to an agreement. Your father is fully aware of my indiscretions.” She frowned. “Do not, for a moment, believe he is a victim in this relationship. He cannot or will not give me what I need, so he gave me freedom to seek it elsewhere.” She was quiet for a moment. “If you feel as if Viscount Glenbrook is a better fit for you for marriage, then marry him. But do not discount the passion you share with Lord Wakefield.”

  Was she actually telling her to marry Sullivan and have an affair with Fletcher on the side? Though Agnes had seen glimpses of the mother she needed, ultimately, they’d never have the relationship that Agnes desired. She sighed. There was nothing more to discuss.

  “This is not appropriate maternal advice,” Agnes said.

  Her mother shrugged. “Perhaps not. What would you have me say to you?”

  She thought again of Duchess Lockwood and how loving she was toward Harriet. She thought of Lady Somersby and how supportive she was, not only to her own children, but to all of the women in the Ladies of Virtue.

  Agnes closed her eyes. What did she want?

  A mother who provided comfort and understanding. A mother who gave advice that would actually be helpful and wouldn’t possibly get her ostracized from Society.

  Was it Agnes’s fault that her mother had never been able to be a mother? Perhaps if she wasn’t so analytical and pragmatic, her mother would engage more with her. Perhaps the flaw wasn’t with her mother, but in her.

  “I want you to be a mother to me. I don’t want you to see me as a rival. I don’t want you to encourage me to seduce my suitors. I want you to be a mother.”

  After that there was nothing left to say.

  Agnes silently made her way into her bedchamber, her thoughts bouncing from the kiss she’d shared with Fletcher to her mother’s inappropriate advice. A silver tray sat atop her dressing table with a single envelope. She recognized the penmanship immediately and her heart thundered.

  She had dared hope her secret suitor had given up after seeing her in Fletcher’s arms on more than one occasion.

  My dearest Agnes,

  I must admit that I am very disappointed in you. I know that we share a powerful connection and yet recently when I sought a dance from you, you declined. Initially I thought that perhaps you didn’t want people to see how things will be when you’re in my arms. We won’t be able to hide it. The passion will be all consuming and everyone will notice. Is that why you denied me?

  My darling, I cannot wait too much longer for us to be together. Do not be shy about showing me how you feel. I know you feel it, too, anytime I’m near.

  Dance with me, Agnes. The next time I ask, you must say yes. I won’t take no for an answer.

  With great adoration.

  Agnes dropped the letter and shivered. She went in search for the footman who had delivered the envelope to her room. Perhaps one of the servants had caught a glimpse of her secret suitor.

  She needed to uncover this man’s identity and quickly before he ruined her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As it turned out, none of the servants had seen anyone actually deliver the message to the house. Someone had come across it on the doorstep, then brought it inside and into her bedchamber. That was the extent of the information she’d gleaned.

  She’d spent the better part of the late afternoon racking her mind, thinking of w
hom she could have offended by declining a dance. It wasn’t unusual for her to not accept every request. It was likely one of the reasons many would consider her cold. But she refused to put herself into a position where she would either be unwillingly fondled or have illicit fantasies whispered into her ears. Granted not all men would do such a thing, but she’d been in a pattern for the last few years of only dancing a certain number of dances at any given ball.

  It had taken every ounce of restraint she had when she finally sat to ready herself for tonight’s concert. She peered into the mirror as her maid did the finishing touches on her coiffure. A scratch came to the door and Agnes shifted her gaze to see who entered. It was the housekeeper.

  “There is a gentleman here to see you, my lady, a Viscount Glenbrook.”

  Agnes frowned. Sullivan was here? She had expected to simply meet him at the Crystal Palace, but she supposed riding over together made sense as well. “Please tell him I shall be down shortly.”

  The housekeeper opened her mouth, then closed it, looking very much like an overly large fish. Finally, she nodded, then left the room.

  She excused her maid, then quickly finished readying herself. The final step was to strap her dagger garter on. She toyed with the idea of bringing along one of her special weaponized fans but thought better of it. If she tried to apprehend any would-be thieves tonight, Lady Somersby might remove her from the Ladies of Virtue altogether. Would that they could identify Lady X soon so that Agnes and the rest of the ladies could resume their good works.

  At least she and her immediate friends could use the opportunity to focus on identifying her secret suitor. She shuddered again at the thought of his letter.

  Agnes made her way down the stairs and into the front parlor. She found Sullivan waiting for her. “My lord,” she said, unable to disguise the surprise in her tone. “I thought we were meeting there.”

  “Miss Watkins.” He bowed. “I had something I wanted to discuss with you and figured we could ride together to the Crystal Palace. Does that meet your approval?”